Love Is Not A Victory March
by RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow
Summary: It's 1943 in Occupied France, and Enjolras (code name Apollo) is perhaps the bravest, most passionate young man in the French Resistance. On a routine run, Apollo is captured, leaving a broken Grantaire behind, robbed of his idol. Les Mis World War 2 AU. Rated T for descriptions of violence, torture, gore, etc. and some language. I'm back. Yep. Marseillaise is back in black.
1. Chapter 1

I...hello there, friends. I have abandoned this account for so long and I apologize. A lot's happened in the past few months. Please don't hate me. I'm starting this one, a new fanfic. Give it a go- the first chapter is short and exciting and please just try it?

~Marseillaise

* * *

"Apollo. Come in, Apollo."

Static. Again. Nicolas Grantaire slammed down the radio receiver, cursing himself for having even the slightest of hopes that there would be a response. Hands shaking from lack of sleep and worry, he fumbled with the recording machine until he found the recording he was looking for. He pressed _Play._

_"C'est Apollo."_ The voice on the other end was frantic, hurried. "_Jean a une casquette. Je repete, Jean a une casquette."_ There was a burst of static, and the line went dead. The recording went on for about fifteen seconds of dead line, he knew. He had listened to it repeatedly. _John has a cap. _A seemingly meaningless sentence that could singlehandedly sweep desolation across the Resistance. It was a code. _I have been captured._

The wireless operator ran his hands through his black curls. Enjolras, as only those who had known him before the war, before the Resistance, knew him, was Apollo. One of their best operatives, he was brilliant, selfless, and completely devoted to the cause. Moreover, it had been almost three days since his line had sent that final message.

Grantaire knew that the Nazis wouldn't get any information out of the fiery young man. No matter what they did, he was sure that Enjolras would never give in. That was what scared him. He didn't know to what lengths Enjolras would have to go, but he was sure it would be painful, terrible, and end in the death of the _maquisard_.

Of course, there were other operatives, too. The Maquis des Manises, a group of the Resistance, numbered about two thousand, at the top. No one really knew for sure, though, because most of the operatives only knew the real identities of three others. A partner, a superior, and an inferior. Enjolras had been among the more knowledgeable, but even he couldn't name more than fifty people. Not that he would. He would die before betraying even the most expendable among them, Grantaire knew.

A radio crackled to life. Hurriedly, Grantaire set the recording machine. The message said nothing unusual. Not unimportant, or good, but not unusual. A young man who Grantaire had met briefly, code name Chat, quickly relayed a report of the failed attempt to assassinate a German official. Three confirmed dead, the other two presumed captured until confirmed alive or dead. They had known what was happening beforehand, said the operative, that we must have a rat. A Vichy in the Maquis. End of transmission.

The thought of Vichys made Grantaire's face darken. It was one thing to be forced into occupation, but to go over to the enemy's side, to relay your own country's secrets in exchange for money, power, you name it…the thought made him sick.

He keyed in the code to Versailles, and relayed the encrypted message. That was his job. Day in, day out, relay messages to Versailles, Paris, and occasionally Lyon. It was a boring job, and depressing sometimes, but it was relatively safe. That is to say, if he were caught he would be tortured, tried (but really- there wasn't need of a trial), and killed. But the chance of that was relatively low compared to some of the other positions.

Enjolras had been a field operative. Active, he had been the one to lead sabotages, to scout out the enemy's headquarters, to wreck train tracks and water towers. Enjolras was the man in a mask who gave starving children extra ration cards. That was how they had captured him, presumably. Nothing else was known. It was not allowed to attempt any sort of a rescue mission. It was up to Enjolras, on his own, now.

-:-

It wasn't an unusual job, or even a difficult one. Just get in, hide the ration cards, and get out. Simple enough. Enjolras shivered in the chill air, rounding a bend in the street. He was out past curfew, but that wasn't his biggest worry right now.

The young man wasn't particularly tall, with blonde curls and blue eyes. Enjolras was, to put it in a word, majestic. He held his head high, spoke with confidence, and had the sometimes-unnerving ability to lie seamlessly. This talent, while not exactly something to boast about, was incredibly useful. Combined with a selfless personality and a fiery, patriotic spirit, Enjolras was the perfect operative. And he had volunteered for this.

His coat collar fluttering in the wind, Enjolras patted his chest for the umpteenth time, making absolutely positive that the ration cards were there. Sewn invisibly into the lining of his coat, one couldn't tell that they were there unless they knew where to look. It wouldn't be much protection if he was actually caught, but to the casual observer or even lax check it was flawless.

The _boulangerie_ was just in front of him. Enjolras glanced quickly around the street. No one. He dug the key out of his shoe and opened the shop.

It was dark inside, and smelled faintly of breads. The night was quiet, and Enjolras could hear his own heartbeat.

Two boxes down and to the left. Prizing open the top, Enjolras pulled out a jackknife and began to rip open the lining of his jacket. The soft fleece lining gave way easily, and soon he had almost one hundred illegal ration cards in his hands.

And that was where it all started to go wrong.

Just as he was closing the top of the breadbox, he heard a cry.

_"__M'aidez! S'il vous plaît, m'aidez!" _The voice was a child's, and Enjolras quickly but quietly put down the box and rushed towards it.

A little girl was sitting in the corner of the shop. She was crying, and for a second Enjolras couldn't figure out why. Then he noticed the gloved hand holding her wrist.

A flashlight clicked on, flooding the little _boulangerie _with light. Three men, wearing black to disguise themselves in the shadows, stepped out from behind a shelf. One of them lunged towards Enjolras.

He successfully dodged the first man, but was quickly subdued. Pinned to the ground with his arms behind his back, he felt the cold steel of a pistol on his neck. Enjolras writhed, struggling to get away. But he couldn't help but breathe when a handkerchief was stuffed in his face. The room spun and whirled, and the dark came and swallowed up Enjolras once more.

-:-

Enjolras kept his eyes closed as consciousness returned to him. He was lying on a hard floor, slumped half against a wall, his hands uncomfortably cuffed behind his back. There were faint murmurs, but nothing decipherable. His coat had been removed.

Finally, he opened his eyes. Enjolras was in a small cell, perhaps three meters by three meters. It was stone mostly, with wooden door. The room was dank and barely lit.

With a bit of difficulty, he sat up, his back against the wall.

_Click-click-click-click-click-click. _As the sounds travelled closer, Enjolras backed up against the wall. His heart was pounding. They were, of course, footsteps. The sound of steel- toed boots carrying their owner closer and closer to Enjolras' cell. Enjolras closed his eyes. He didn't want to be here. How had this happened? He was experienced, and clever, and knew lots of things, too many things. He should never have been captured.

But this was war. Nothing ever went the way it ought to. The footsteps stopped, and Enjolras heard a rusty lock turn.

He opened his eyes. A man stood in front of him. The man wasn't particularly tally, but Enjolras estimated him to be slightly taller than himself. He had shiny boots. Enjolras wanted desperately to spit on them, but he didn't. There was a line between being defiant and being stupid and thus being killed.

"What is your name?"

Enjolras remained silent.

The man crouched down, grabbing Enjolras' face in a gloved hand.

"Your _name_."

"Jean-Marc Barrière." It was the first name he thought of.

The man grunted. "What do you know?"

Enjolras remained silent.

"You can be uncooperative if you wish. That is the more painful of the two ways, I can assure you. And what a shame it would be to mar that pretty face." The tone of voice he said it in, however, made it clear that he didn't have any problems with marring Enjolras' face.

Enjolras showed no sign of hearing anything the man had said. His stomach gurgled slightly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since a hurried lunch the day before.

Standing, the man looked down his (quite long) nose at Enjolras. "Very well then. I shall see you soon."

Opening the door, he left. The lock turned.

Enjolras rolled his neck, cracking it. He was already stiff. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep.

-:-

Grantaire stood up. Exhausted, he dragged himself back to his room. Falling onto the bed, he closed his eyes. Before he could think, he was asleep. When he woke up, at first he didn't realize he _had_ been asleep. But within a few moments, he sighed and got up. Pulling a comb through his hair, he gave up after trying for thirty seconds to yank out a knot. He splashed water on his face, rubbing his red eyes. All this was done in less than five minutes.

Walking into the station, he met a man. He knew him, or at least his rank. Higher than Grantaire's.

"Sir," he said, nodding his head.

"You knew the agent called Apollo?"

Grantaire's mind spun. _Knew._ Past tense. Swallowing and mentally preparing for the worse, he nodded. "Yes."

"He's been captured, as I assume you know."

Nodding again.

"Currently, he is being held in the _Chateaux de Bordeaux_. Bordeaux Castle."

Grantaire's head snapped up. "He's still alive?"

"As far as we know. We have an informant, but it is unlikely that they will be able to get back into the place. Just thought you should know." The man turned on his heel and walked away.

-:-

The cell door opened with a resounding clang. Enjolras hastily sat up, blinking several times at the sudden light.

"Barrière?"

Recalling that this was the name he had told them, Enjolras fixed a steely glare at the man and nodded ever so slightly.

The man walked forward and grabbed Enjolras by the lapels of his shirt. Enjolras scuffed his boot backwards and stood up. He was still shorter than the man was.

"What do you want?" Enjolras asked, hoarsely.

"Information."

"No."

The man slammed Enjolras down. Turning around, he grabbed his arm. Enjolras, tired and stiff, was helpless to resist.

A needle, or something thereabouts, was positioned underneath the left thumbnail of the man's captive.

"Tell me your real name, and your operating name."

Enjolras winced as the needle was poked slightly under his nail. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes. "No," he said, breathing heavily.

"Very well."

Slowly, the man pushed the needle under Enjolras' nail. The pain was excruciating, and Enjolras moaned loudly as he clenched his muscles.

"Are you ready yet?"

"_No._" Enjolras spat the word, slightly breathless. His eyes, he knew, shone with pain, but he blinked away the wetness and

The man twisted the needle, causing even more pain. Enjolras screamed, arching his back, a plea for it to stop. The guard scoffed at him, and Enjolras opened his eyes enough to glare. Remember the real enemy. Not the pain- the pain he could live with. Defy. Defy. Always defy.

He screamed words. Defiantly, Enjolras began to scream the words to the French national anthem, La Marseillaise. This earned him a cuff on the ear. The man wore a ring, and it cut him. Warm blood dribbled down Enjolras' face, but he smiled lazily. For now, he had a victory.

The needle came free, and Enjolras sat, panting. He had not given anything away.

The man smiled wanly and came back around to the front of Enjolras.

"That was just the beginning. Continue this noncompliance, and it will get much, much worse, believe me."

Enjolras had no problem believing what the man said, but he was determined not to say anything. He mustn't. The Resistance was more important than the life of one man, no matter what. He would delay his death, certainly. Anyone would. But it was inevitable that it would happen. Enjolras would die, if nothing else.

* * *

Well? Review, please!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow! The response to this story has been great! I'm glad you like the idea of a WWII-based AU! This chapter has more angsty Grantaire, more hurt Enjolras, and a new plot development. But before that, I'd like to thank Percyjacksonfangirl11, Jenna (guest), TheIbis2010, and butterfly52 for their awesome reviews. You guys rock!

* * *

Enjolras' lips were cracked, his eyes dull. After three days in the cell without food or water, he was weaker than ever before. His hunger was a gnawing pain in his stomach. It wasn't as sharp anymore, just constant. A soft noise escaped his mouth before he could check it.

He was cuffed against a pole, hands and feet. All his nails were torn and bloody, and he had bruises and blood all over his face. His shirt was a ripped wreck, and covered in dried blood. The golden hair that covered his head, usually pulled back into a small ponytail at the base of his neck, was loose and greasy. In short, he looked like hell.

The door opened. Enjolras opened his eyes, raising his head slightly.

"Apollo." It was a statement, not a question.

Enjolras showed no sign of acknowledgement.

"That's who we've caught. We've caught the elusive Apollo. Go on, own up. It won't change your fate."

Enjolras remained silent, his blood-caked hands clenching. A part of him wanted to give in, but a bigger, more cracked part begged him to keep hold of this shred of pride.

"No. You are mistaken," he said at last.

The guard smiled. "Am I, then." Turning to the door, he called, "bring in the other."

Another guard pushed open the door, dragging another prisoner behind him. The prisoner was lankly brown-haired. He might have been handsome, but his face was covered in scrapes, cuts, and welts. When he saw Enjolras inside the cell, his eyes dropped.

Enjolras looked closely at the man. Suddenly, realization dawned on him. He didn't remember the man's name, but he recognized him. They had presumed him dead, but…clearly, he wasn't. Although judging from his face, he wished he was.

Softly, so that it was barely a breath, he spoke. "I'm sorry, Apollo. I never meant to incriminate you."

Enjolras struggled with the new information. At last, he responded. "It's fine."

The other man nodded. A guard turned to Enjolras.

"You know this man?"

Enjolras cautiously nodded. It wasn't any use lying now, the guard already knew the truth.

"Good."

The door was slammed shut again.

-:-

To be truthful, Enjolras didn't know how long he was in the dark. The dark was the one thing that was constant, like an oppressive cloud that wouldn't abate even if you closed your eyes. The filthy cell stank of piss, vomit, and a thousand other undesirable smells. Faintly, sometimes, he could hear the screams of others in the hell-hole of a prison, and anger flared within him. Because didn't even the Nazis have children, people that they would die for out of love? Enjolras figured they didn't. They weren't people, not in the sense of the term.

The metal cuffs scraped against his wrists, drawing welts. And he had to piss. But the guard on duty either didn't hear his shouts or didn't want to, and so he sat and pissed himself, feeling humiliated. Humiliation was a terrible form of punishment—it stripped away your pride and your dignity, leaving the bare flesh for the evils to feast on. So Enjolras disregarded any pride that he had—for himself. For France, he would never give up, should it cost him his pride, his dignity—or his death.

-:-

Grantaire hadn't cried that hard since he was fifteen and his mother died. He remembered Enjolras then, already fiery with passion and burning bright for his country, shouting at the world for its unfairness. Enjolras had always been so bright, burning up with his passion and ideals. Grantaire's father had turned to drink after Marie passed, and he remembered bringing home a bad grade in mathematics only to be hit, cursed, and thrown out the door.

That was when he really and truly lost faith in humanity.

His father had once been a good—even a great man. He had been the perfect father, always there to ease your fears, always encouraging, never hurting or chastising too roughly. That all changed after Marie, and Grantaire's idol had become what he despised—a lowly, drunken wreck.

By enlisting, Grantaire had hoped to escape his father, and hopefully stay with Enjolras. He knew that the other man had grown to despise him. Enjolras was a beautiful flame, unable to comprehend the smoke and wretchedness that Grantaire had become. To lose such a flame would be unbearable. Not only to the cause, but to Grantaire himself. Really, it should be him rotting away in a cell—probably being tortured for information and deprived of basic necessities—and Enjolras remaining here, not the other way around.

But there wasn't anything he could do about it but continue to be a wireless operator, so that was what he did.

-:-

When the door to his cell was thrust open, Enjolras expected torture. At the very least, grilling for information. What he received instead was conflicting—food and water. He didn't want to rely on his captors for anything, wanted to spit in their faces and declare that he would starve rather than eat something they had touched, but the reality was that he just couldn't do that. There was some partially stale bread, dried strips of an unidentifiable meat, and a bruised apple.

Taking a bite out of the bread, he moaned. Actually _moaned_ in delight. It was the best food he had ever tasted.

In five minutes, he was finished. The scant meal barely satisfied his stomach, but any more and he knew all too well that he would just vomit it back up, so he didn't wish vainly for more food.

After eating, he languished in his cell for almost an hour before the next guard showed. It was a new one, that Enjolras had never seen before. He looked up from his position in the corner.

"So, you are the famous Apollo of the maquisards," the guard said, sounding genuinely curious. He spoke in French, in a bad accent. "It is curious, is it not, to see one's enemy in the flesh? See, you have become something of a legend, but in the end you are no more than a man like me." He squatted down on the floor, and Enjolras unconsciously shrank backwards.

"Go to Hell, the lot of you," he rasped.

The guard merely smiled. "I don't think so. You are the one in the wrong here, or why would you be tied to a pole? Come with me."

Enjolras struggled to his feet, bracing himself on his pole. The guard walked over and sliced through the ropes binding him to it, and pulled him up. "Come, I want to show you something."

The guard pushed Enjolras ahead of him down a hallway and out into a courtyard. He took the young insurgent and tied his wrists to yet another pole, so that Enjolras was facing the prominent feature of the courtyard—a small, dirty guillotine.

Enjolras tensed. Was this it? The end? He really hadn't given them any incriminating information, and a part of him was relieved. His death wouldn't be anything special, and he didn't want to die, of course, but he would know that he had died without giving away any of the secrets of the Maquis des Manises.

Then another man was shoved in. The same from before, who had identified Enjolras. He was in worse shape, if possible, and as soon as he saw the guillotine his eyes shone.

"See this man?" Enjolras' guard said calmly. "He gave us all the information he had, and now he will die. Unless you decide to help us. Many lives can be saved if more people would just accept that they are wrong, you see. Apollo, it isn't my wish for this Earth to be consumed by fighting, but people must know that they are wrong. And if they are not for us, they are wrong."

He conversed with another guard who had entered with the young man quickly. The other guard nodded, dragging the _maquisard_ over to the guillotine. Enjolras stiffened.

"Now. You give us information, he lives. You don't, he dies. Do you see?" Enjolras' guard said in clipped French.

Enjolras spewed out a string of profanities in response. He wasn't a cold-hearted bastard like the guards, but he knew that the resistance was more important than the life of one man. If it had been himself up by the guillotine, he would have wanted to die rather than let secrets be told.

Still, he hated himself more with every passing second of silence. The guard's hand slapped him in the face, jarring his broken nose painfully, and Enjolras moaned slightly.

"Are you a fool? He will die! Tell me, you idiotic scum!"

"I'll tell you…when Hell freezes over…" Enjolras coughed.

"Kill him."

Enjolras tried to look away, but his guard held his face, forcing him to relieve the sight before his eyes.

The young man- Luc, that had been his name. Luc Verrais. The cocky pilot that had been convinced of a victory within a year. Enjolras remembered that on the first of April, Luc had pinned fish on everyone's backs in his bunker, gleefully exclaiming "_Poisson d'avril!" _

Nevertheless, even for the happy-go-lucky young _maquisard_, Enjolras wouldn't speak. So he watched as the young man was led up to the mound. As he was forced into the horrible machine, he struggled, shouting out.

"Séjour fort, Apollo ! Ne laissez jamais des salauds savent quoi que ce soit**. **Vive la France **(**Stay strong, Apollo! Never let any of the bastards know anything. Long live France)!"

Enjolras watched as he was killed. It was swift, brutal, and efficient, as the instrument was built to be. Numbly, he was yanked back up.

"Every hour, on the hour, we will execute another person. Do you understand, Apollo? Many lives can be spared if you will just tell us information."

Enjolras spat on the guards boots, earning another cuff on the face. He bit his lip almost to the point of bleeding, but he didn't make a sound this time. Just stared at the guards shoes and raged silently. He wouldn't break. They couldn't. Right?

* * *

Wow, poor Enjolras! Please leave a review, and please don't hurt me for what I've put our favorite insurgent through!

-Marseillaise


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: WOW! The response to this was fantastic! Im glad you all are enjoying this story. Before we start chapter three, I'd like to thank PhoenixFlames12, R. M. Jones, percyjacksonfangirl11, and Jenna (guest) for their awesome reviews. Thanks so much! And now, onto the story...some familiar faces, hopefully! Onward!

~Marseillaise

* * *

A young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve in age, collapsed, panting, into the café Musain. His face had a red splotch that would grow to a bruise, but otherwise he looked no worse than the other street urchins that littered the city.

"De Courfeyrac," he gasped out. "I need to see de Courfeyrac."

A handsome young man strode over, his face unreadable. "It is simply Courfeyrac," he said in a warm, rich voice. "The particle is abhorrent. What do you want?"

"I need to speak with you. Alone."

The young man had a carefully guarded look, and he took the boy aside to a litle room off thr main café.

"It's about Apollo. And before you deny it all, I know you help lead les Maquis des Manises. I know a lot of things. Anyway, this big guy, he comes up to me, he tells me 'boy, you know things?' And I says 'yes, your Nazi-ship,' because he was- he had their symbol." The boy wrinkled his nose. "Anyways, he goes, 'find the resistance and tell them we have Apollo, and we're going to find out all he knows and kill 'im,' and I went 'but what resistance? We French are all real happy to have you in our country.' That's how I got this," he said, smiling crookedly and pointing to the purpling bruise across his face. Sobering, he gave Courfeyrac a piercing glare. "It's important, ain't it? I ain't old enough to do much, but I will be. That's what I came to tell you."

The boy began to dash off again, but Courfeyrac grabbed hold of his tattered jacket. "Young man," he said in a shaken voice, "breathe a word of this to no one."

"I'm a kid, not an idiot," the boy said, and Courfeyrac's heart clenched. Clearly, the boy had seen too much of the world already.

"I don't doubt that," Courfeyrac responded. As the boy darted away, he added, "be careful," but he didn't know if the boy had heard him. It was only after that he realized he didn't even know the boy's name.

-:-

"Apollo has been taken, alive. He will be interrogated and killed if we do nothing," murmured Courfeyrac later to another young man. This one was tall, and willowy, with light brown hair that swept into his eyes and glasses that gave him the air of a scholar.

"I know him. He will not give in easily. Still, he does carry secrets, and more information that even I," the second man responded.

"We have to get him out, Combeferre. It's our only option. If he spills..." Courfeyrac warned, his voice dropping off.

"I know. But it won't be easy, and we cannot risk the lives of many maquisards for the sake of one man. You know that En-Apollo, that is- wouldn't be able to live with that. The man's a fortress, but he isn't unbreachable."

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, Courfeyrac downing drinks at an alarming rate.

"Combeferre, buy me another Scotch."

"The alcohol rationing..."

Courfeyrac's face purpled, and he stood up. "To Hell with the alcohol rationing! I want a Scotch, and I'll be damned if I don't..." his voice trailed off as an officer, a Vichy, strode into the bar. Sitting back down, he breathed heavily. To Combeferre, he whispered, "and damn those Vichys, too, to the deepest pit of Hell. Imagine- turning on your own country like that? I am going to be sick. I'm drunk, and I'm pissed off, and everyone that isn't me or you can go to Hell for all I care. Goodbye." And with that, he strode off out of the bar.

Well, he tried to. The first attempt ended in running into the doorframe, drawing a few laughs from the crowd. Courfeyrac cursed and exited, this time making it all the way out without bumping into anything.

The Vichy strolled over and took Courfeyrac's abandoned spot on the bar, next to Combeferre. "Quite an excitable friend you have there, eh?"

Combeferre swallowed, his throat suddenly a bit dry. "He...has some issues with the alcohol rationing. That's not to say he's a drunkard, of course," he added hastily. "He's had a hard day- found out his girlfriend was cheating," Combeferre embellished wildly. "I gave him my rations as well, and as you can see...well, he's become a bit of a lightweight."

Seemingly satisfied, the man leaned back. "My name's Javert, by the way. I don't think you mentioned yours?"

"Combeferre. Julien Combeferre."

"What do you do, Combeferre?" the man pried.

"I help my mother and two younger sisters on our farm. I went to college, but my father died and I am needed at home."

"Shame, you come across as a very smart young man. What college did you attend?"

"Institute d'Etudes de Politiques de Paris. I was studying to be a lawyer."

The man harrumphed, clearly impressed. "Shame, isn't it, the war? We French are lucky we still have our own control."

Combeferre nearly snorted into the glass he was bringing to his mouth, but be swallowed and choked on the water to cover it up. "Yes, it is," he agreed, secretly loathing the man. To think that the French still had control! The notion would have been laughable, had it not been deadly serious.

"Well, I should check on my friend. It was nice meeting you, Mssr. Javert."

"Inspector. Inspector Javert," the man corrected. "I am with the police."

Of course you are, you Vichy scum, Combeferre thought. Aloud, he said courteously, "my apologies, Inspector. Good day."

"Good day."

-:-

"Nicolas Grantaire!"

The wireless operator flailed slightly pulling his headset off, and hurried over. "Yes?"

"You knew the agent codenamed Apollo personally?"

Grantaire felt his hands grow clammy. Knew. Knew. Past tense. Guarding his emotions from displaying on his face, he replied affirmatively.

"He has been captured, and will be interrogated. We believe he is being held at la Chateaux Bordeaux. We need someone to go in. Do you understand?"

Grantiaire understood perfectly. He was expendable, and he had a connection to Enjolras strong enough to ensure the mission would be done to the best of his ability. He nodded, hardly caring. Enjolras was alive, and Grantaire was going to find him, be his knight in shining armor. Or something like that.

"Good. You may call me Georg if you must. I am in charge. Your mission is to find a way into the facility, and if possible, smuggle Apollo out." Georg took a deep breath, rubbing his temples. "If it is impossible to smuggle out Apollo..." he looked at Grantaire as if begging him to understand. "The Nazis cannot learn the information his head contains, Grantaire. Use any means possible to ensure they cannot get their hands on it. If- and only if- it comes to the worst, you may have to kill him."

"It won't come to that," Grantaire replied immediately.

Georg sighed, a wisp of grey hair fighting free from under his cap. "I hope it doesn't. Too many have already died fighting for what's right. I would not have you snuff out another flame were it not absolutely necessary."

-:-

"Please," Enjolras whispered, the word cracking on his lips. "Please. He is barely a boy, seventeen at most-"

"His life can be spared, if you just tell us the meeting place of les Maquis des Manises."

Enjolras looked at the boy with tired, dull eyes that barely flickered with the flame they once held. The boy was slight, with thin, strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a knotted braid. He was covered in bruises, but, unlike the last three people Enjolras had been forced to watch die, he still had a fire burning in his eyes.

With swift hand movements, he began tapping out Morse code. "Never speak. Never sp-" his hand was stepped on by the guard holding him, and the young man-he really was only a boy- let out a muffled groan of pain. From the blood on his mouth and the way that he made muted noises and never spoke, Enjolras could tell his tongue was cut out.

"I-"

"He is fifteen, and he has all his life in front of him. He can no longer speak, but we have no use for him. It is your choice, Apollo."

Enjolras bowed his head, waiting for the guard to shove it back up. He was not dissapointed.

"The basement of Madame Tellier's old shop."

The guard hoisting the struggling young man to the guillotine suddenly dropped his victim. Enjolras' guard nodded, smiling.

"Okay. We'll send out men, and if you're right, the boy lives. If not...he'll wish he was dead long before he was, and you'll watch. Take him back to his cell."

As Enjolras passed the young boy, he felt a scrap of paper shoved down his shirt. His guard noticed, halting and retrieving it.

"Séjour fort. N'oublie pas Patrie. (Stay strong. Don't forget Patria.)"

With a bark, the guard shoved Enjolras forward, crushing the paper in his palm. "Patria?" he asked Enjolras later. "Apollo, you have no Patria. She died, don't you remember?"

"A martyr, then," Enjolras had rasped back in response.

The guard tutted, smiling as if he knew something Enjolras didn't. "Fool. You cannot fight in the name of the dead, for they cannot aid you. Patria is dead. I should know. We killed her."

* * *

Uh...please don't kill me? Any ideas as to the identity of the young boy in the beginning? And what do you think- is Enjolras telling the truth? What is going to happen to the boy with his tongue cut out? Will Grantaire have to kill Enjolras? Please tell me what you think will happen! Constructive criticism and praise are both welcome as well. Please be kind and leave a review if you enjoyed this! I'll try and update again on Sunday, but no promises.

~Marseillaise


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: As to the identity of the boy in the last chapter: you'll see for sure in this one! Thanks so much to Percyjacksonfangirl11, Arwen2712, Phoenixflames12, and Jenna (guest). You guys rock! And now, chapter four...

-Marseillaise

* * *

"Liar!" Slap. "Never," slap, "lie," slap, "again!" Slap slap.

Enjolras moaned and looked down, blood spilling out of his mouth. Behind him, the mute youth he had spared from the guillotine earlier was making half-strangled noises and sobbing.

"Hold, Franz," another officer said to the one abusing Enjolras. "He has to be able to speak."

Franz grunted, and pulled Enjolras' head up by his dirty, matted hair.

"Do you understand?"

Enjolras nodded. No more lies. He had lied before, of course, not knowing they would torture the boy more.

And especially not knowing they would have killed Madame Tellier.

Enjolras flinched as the whip struck the young boy's back yet again, and when the knotted leather striped his own back he screamed.

Two for one. The boy was whipped twice, Enjolras was whipped once. Until they decided to stop and kill the boy, or he simply keeled over.

"Stop," he gasped, "I won't lie again. I swear."

"I know you won't. Not after this."

Enjolras bowed his head, but it was yanked up again.

"Watch."

-:-

La Châteaux Bordeaux was located almost exactly seven miles from Grantaire's cousin, his mother's sister's daughter. Leslie was three years Grantaire's senior, and she and her husband ran a small vinyard relatively near the city.

He had telegrammed her, and asked if it would be okay if he stayed with them for a week or two, and she had agreed. Grantaire could help with the vinyard, she said, and meet her two year old son.

And Grantaire could find a way to get into the castle turned prison, but he didn't mention it to Leslie. She and her husband weren't...supportive,.necessarily, of the Vichy Regime, but they were very grateful it hadn't been worse and content with it.

He made the trip in Courfeyrac's car, a beautiful thing that hardly ever got used. They didn't speak for much of the two-hour trip, but towards the end Courfeyrac turned to Grantaire.

"Be careful, okay?"

Grantaire snorted. "I am going to attempt to break into a Nazi prison, rescue our dear leader, and escape unscathed along with said dear leader. I'll be very careful, promise."

Courfeyrac sighed and continued driving.

When they arrived, Grantaire was greeted by Leslie warmly. He smiled courteously, but excused himself early to go to bed, claiming he was exhauseted from the trip. Leslie obliged.

Once he was settled in the guest room and confident that the door was securely locked, Grantaire pulled out a little leather-bound journal.

/Drove with Courfeyrac to Celie's house. Will attempt to scout out XXX tomorrow, if possible. Possible plan- red cross?/

Grantaire gnawed the tip of his pencil absentmindedly. The journal had been a gift from mother, before she died, part of a set of four. The paper inside was thick, heavy paper that was lightly textured- perfect for sketching. Grantaire smiled, the bittersweet memory returning to him.

Even at a young age, Grantaire had shown a knack for art. His sketches were immaculate, perfect to the last detail, and the few charcoals he drew were brilliantly shaded- all black stark against the white, the lines and curves flawless and confident.

The journal set had been in her closet, a birthday present that she would never live to bestow upon her son. Grantaire had found it one day, after a particularly rough fight with his father. Since then, he had used them sparingly, writing in fine, tiny handwriting only when monumentous events occured.

This was the third out of four. He had kept a sort of journal ever since beginning with les Maquis des Manises, something that was forbidden (for, should it fall into enemy hands, the result would be disastrous). But Grantaire had never cared much for rules, and he X'ed out important locations anyway.

Sighing, he flipped the page to a portriat of Enjolras he had started weeks ago. It was done in just crude pencil, and out of memory, but it still bore a striking resemblance to the fiery maquisard.

Grantaire doubted that Enjolras still looked that beautiful. He remembered a horror story he had heard of the prisons from a Red Cross member, and although it was clean (she suspcted they had cleaned it for her visit, however), the few prisoners she had glimpsed looked beaten, bruised, and bloody.

It hurt to think of Enjolras like that.

Which is why he couldn't fail.

-:-

"I will not speak," Enjolras mumbled, his gaze cracked and trembling.

"Yes, you will. You may think you can hold out, but you are not invincible. And you are cracking, Apollo. We'll find the cracks."

-:-

The young boy whom Courfeyrac had conversed with before gazed at his two charges. He called them Jacqued and Marc, although he didn't know their real names, or even if they had any. The ragtag group lived in the giant elephant in La Place de la Bastille, which was falling apart and barely held their weight.

Lived, the boy thought, was a strong word. Existed, maybe. Died.

He hurred along the streets until he found a suitable victim: a young man, dressed nicely but not too nicely, walking alone. Quietly, he sidled up behind the man, slipping a slim but deft hand into the man's pocket. He withdrew a ration card: bread.

The urchin almost cawed in delight. He hadn't had bread in four days. Suddenly, the man turned around.

"Excuse me, but do you know where a man called Courfeyrac is? You...look like you know your way around the streets."

"I might," the boy said, weighing his options. "What's it to you?"

The youmg man looked desperate. "He's been leaving at odd hours, and he won't tell me where he's going. I need to speak with him. If you find where he's going, please tell me. He's my roomate."

"Huh. I know where he is. But I ain't telling you. I'll ask him about you. Say, what's your name? I'm Gavroche."

"Marius. Marius Pontmercy. Tell him it's urgent."

* * *

A/N 2: WELL, whaddya think? Happy Bastille Day, by the way (and by that I mean I'm celebrating the day I loudly sang the French national anthem in public whilst wearing a French flag...)!

Do you think Grantaire will be successful? And what about Marius? What do you think he needs Courf for? Please review :)

-Marseillaise


	5. Chapter 5

A/N:_ h-h-hi there...*winces at not having updated in over a month* Thanks to phoenixflames12 and Om for reviewing. Actually, if you're reading this, you can thank Om because she forced me to keep writing this. If I hadn't, I'm pretty sure she would actually come by my house and make me feel guilty. Thanks, Om. You rock. And I actually didn't mean to abandon this. So I'm going to try and update it once a week or so. Yay? Okay. Onto the story. _

_-Marseillaise_

* * *

The worst part was the blindfold. It was heavy, and it obscured vision, and it made Enjolras feel completely vulnerable.

Not that he would have been any less vulnerable without it.

Thick, scratchy ropes pulled tight against his arms and legs, effectively keeping him still on the table. If he had still possessed the energy, he would have struggled.

There was suddenly a thin pain blooming from his left shoulder. At first it was bareable, but suddenly...

Enjolras' back arched, evry fiber in his body pulled taught. He screamed, the sound ripping up out of his throat and out to the cruel, cruel world.

"This is the Axillery Nerve," a calm voice explained. Enjolras could barely detect it through the pain, but he he listened all the same, trying to focus.

"It's an extremely sensitive nerve. One prod and your system is almost overloaded with pin receptors. What do you think would happen if I actually pinched it?"

Enjolras drew his last reserve of strength and squirmed uselessly. "Please," he panted, his throat raw and dry. "Please."

"This is for medicine. Posterity. I am a doctor; I must learn these things. And whom better to learn them on than a rebel dog from France?"

Tears wet the blindfold, and Enjolras gritted his teeth. His bare chest heaved, and his muscles stood taught.

Once more the man dug into the sliced open shoulder.

And then there was pain the likes of which Enjolras had never experienced. It filled up his mind, and it was the only thing that existed. The slide into blackness was welcome this time.

-:-

"M. Courfeyrac! I've got a message for ya."

Courfeyrac turned and tiredly looked at the boy before him. War had aged the young man. He was jovial, but hesitant. Nothing could give him as much pleasure as it once had, especially with their leader gone. "Yes?"

"Yer roomate- Pontmercy, I think it was- wants to talk to you," the urchin said excitedly.

Courfeyrac stiffened. Marius was a good friend, yes, but he was a monarchist. He opposed the Regime, but he didn't exactly want a people's republic. "About what?"

"I ain't yer newsboy. Ask him yourself."

Courfeyrac nodded. "Of course. Thank you, Gavroche."

"Hey, Monsieur?"

"Yes? And please, call me Courfeyrac."

The boy took a deep breath, and Courfeyrac once again saw those old, battle-scarred eyes. The kind of eyes a boy shouldn't have. "Courfeyrac...I know who you are, what you do. And when I grow up, I wanna do the same thing. But sometimes I wonder. Is this ever going to end? The Nazis might go, but who will take their place? War is all I've known, Courfeyrac. So keep fighting for the right team." And with that, he slipped out of the café.

Courfeyrac was stunned at the feeling and wisdom in the boy's words, but he couldn't dwell on it. There were- sadly- more important things than one boy's soul.

-:-

"I'm going into town," Grantaire said, looking up. "I'll be back tonight."

Leslie looked up. Surprise was writ on her face, but she only nodded. "Of- of course. Do you need anything?"

"No."

Leslie nodded and watched as Grantaire slung his pack over his shoulder and took off on the bicycle Courfeyrac had lent him.

Grantaire biked into town, just in case anybody was watching, but as soon as he arrived he doubled back, along a different road. It was sickening, the way the prison was just...there. Amongst people, amongst the very people that those inside were dying for. The irony made him smile. Grantaire had always been something of a cynic.

It was huge, soaring into the sky in towering spirals, the original stone walls of the Châteaux now including Nazi sentries.

There was no way inside. It was stone, it was guarded, and it was too big. In short, inpenetrable.

Well, maybe.

He remebered the Swedish woman he had met, months ago. Her red cross uniform had gotten her past the gates, and her wits had collected valuable information. They'd won, that time.

Grantaire tried not to look suspicious, so he did a lazy loop while observing the Châteaux's defenses. When he arrived back at Leslie's (after buying a small wooden toy for her two year old son to prove he really had been in town), it was only five PM.

-:-

"His name was Prouvaire."

Enjolras clamped his jaw and set his face.

"You killed him."

"You whipped him until he keeled over from blood loss," Enjolras snapped back in French (because he could still speak in his language, if he had nothing left).

The guard understood little French, but he got Enjolras' point. "He would still be alive- and that old woman, too- if you had told the truth."

Enjolras bowed his head, his matted curls hiding his eyes.

"How are you any different? If you captured a prisoner and the only way to make him reveal information that could save your and your comrades' lives was to torture him, what would you do?

"You are not the only person to try and resist, Apollo. Prouvaire did as well. Kept telling lies, so we cut out his tongue. He could still write. But do you know what he wrote? He wrote 'the caged bird sings because it has never experienced freedom; as I know what it is like to live there; I shall never sing again.' Foolishness!"

Enjolras wished Prouvaire's last stand hadn't been alone. That the- poet, maybe?- hadn't had to die wretchedly, on the ground, covered in blood and screaming.

He thought that the young man deserved a better death.

But he said nothing.

"What is it that you desire? Death?"

Enjolras looked up. "I would gladly die," he said through a raspy throat, "if it meant the end of you as well."

The man didn't speak enough French to understand, or maybe he was pretending not to. Either way, Enjolras didn't care.

"You're breaking, Apollo."

-:-

"That Vichy. Javert, I think his name was," Marius said in a low, hurried voice, stumbling over the words a little. "He was following you. Courfeyrac, I don't presume to know all of your motives, nor your outings, but it isn't a secret that you do have an unusual tendancy to skip class."

"What can I say, Marius? I like to add to my collection," the curly-haired man replied with an easy grin, referring to his ever-growing number of mistresses.

"You're being watched," cried Marius, "and you're maing jokes? This could be about your life!"

Courfeyrac dropped the façade and looked at Marius sadly. "I know."

"Then stop! Actually attend class! Do something productive with your life and try not to attract attention!"

_If only you knew_, Courfeyrac thought. "The Musain. Thursday night. Tell the bartender that you have a red sock." He stood up and tipped his hat, making to leave the park. "Good day, Marius."

* * *

A/N 2:_ IF YOU LIKED IT PLEASE REVIEW! THANKS!_

_-MARSEILLAISE_


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